Reason
by angelsdemonsducks
Summary: Tears mingle with the rain on his face, and slowly, so as not to draw any attention to himself, he steps backward into the darkness of a nearby alley. "Did you even notice I was gone..." AU.
1. Chapter 1

When he wakes, he is alone.

It is dark, and cold, and he can't breathe. Images flash through his mind, disjointed, like an old movie with messed up film.

_A?_

_Slam!_

_Or B?_

_Slam!_

_Forehand?_

_Slam!_

_Or backhand?_

_Slam!_

The madman's face leers at him, and he feels it all over again. The blood, the bruises, the broken bones, the betrayal. The burning.

Up until the end, he believes that Batman will come for him. He believes that Batman will keep him safe, will protect him. In the last few moments, when he's not thinking about saving his mother, he's thinking about what to say to him when he arrives. How to apologize for not listening, how to promise to never, ever run off like that again, if only things will go back to the way they used to be.

Even as the bomb explodes, he believes that his father will come.

But he doesn't.

And now, in this cold, dark, unknown place, he is still alone.

He opens his mouth to scream, but barely a sound emerges. His vocal cords are raw, and his tongue dry as sand. It comes out as a soft rasp. "_Bruce…_" He begins to thrash in his confinement, seeking escape, any escape. "Bruce! Please!" The words rip from his throat, barely human-sounding. "Don't leave me in here!" His breathing quickens, and his hands fumble for something, anything to get him out of here. They fall on the buckle of his belt, and he tears it off, thrusting at the wood above him.

Soil falls all around him and he _can't breathe._

By the time he reaches the surface, his hands are bloody, and his lungs are full of dirt. His clothes are torn, and he doesn't know where he is. He collapses on the ground, savoring the feeling of grass under his knees, no matter how much it irritates the cuts littering his body. He's not dying anymore, he doesn't think, and that's what's really important.

Shuddering and sobbing, he looks up, taking in the vague shapes around him. He doesn't know what they are, and he doesn't care. The one shape he wants to see is not among them. His thoughts run at speeds to rival the Flash, and none of them are good.

_Bruce…_

_Bruce… where are you?_

_Why aren't you here?_

_Don't you still love me?_

_What did I do wrong?_

_Why don't you love me?_

_Whywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhy?_

He staggers to his feet, ignoring his muscles' screams of protest. He has somewhere to be, someone to find. He turns around and views his surroundings, trying to capture some sense of direction. What he gets is something else.

There is a tombstone behind him, bent and grey. Even in the dark, the name inscribed upon it is legible.

Jason Todd.

He blinks. Isn't that his name?

_A?_

_Slam!_

_Or B?_

_Slam!_

And he knows no more for a long time.

xXx

The next time he is aware of himself, he is drowning.

_No. Nononononnonononononono. Not again!_

He opens his mouth and tries to scream, but water flows in, choking him. Instinct takes hold, and he closes it again, but not before he's swallowed far too much of the liquid. Everything's becoming fuzzy again now, his will to fight fading. Would it be so bad to slip away again? The water, once icy, feels warm now, silken, like his bed back at the manor. To give in to it would be just like falling asleep…

_No. Don't you dare._

This is not his own voice, but Bruce's, and his eyes snap open. He can't give up, he can't die again, not now! He needs to go home, to tell Bruce he's sorry, to promise to always listen from now on. Bruce is his reason to keep going. So he uses the last of his fading strength to look up and find the surface.

When he breaks it, there are so many things he wants to do. He wants to scream, to laugh, to cry, to smile, to run and never, ever stop. What he does instead is cough up a lung full of water, nearly slipping below the surface once again. He doesn't stop hacking until he's been hauled up to the shore.

"Breathe, Jason," a woman's voice orders, and he inhales instinctively at the authoritative tone, though the action sends him into another coughing fit. When he can look up, the face he sees is not the one he was expecting.

"Talia?"

She puts a finger to his lips. "Not here," she whispers. "All will be explained."

When she stands to leave, the only thing he can do is follow.

xXx

Escaping is almost too easy. He knocks out the guards by his door and continues down the hallway. He meets no one else, and even if he did, he'd just attack them as well.

Talia hasn't come to him yet, and for that he is grateful. He doesn't want to listen to her explanations and manipulations. He knows that the only reason that Talia al Ghul would bring him back from the grave would be to get to Bruce, and he won't let that happen.

But Talia al Ghul is an expert at getting what she wants, so he is leaving now, before she has the chance.

Truthfully, he doesn't know whether or not his return is a good thing. When he's not feeling oddly detached from everything, he is irrationally angry: at Bruce, at the Joker, at the whole world. This is coupled with an intense longing to be home again, though, so he doesn't mind. And least he knows that Bruce would've killed the Joker for what he did, so no one else would ever be hurt by that madman again.

He nods at this thought, even as he makes his way to what he hopes is a landing strip. Yes, the Joker will be gone. There was no way that Bruce would have let him live. Not after taking him away.

He does indeed find a landing strip. The few that are guarding it are as easy to take out as the ones at his room were, especially when he lets his rage take over. _Funny, _he reflects. _Bruce always said that rage blinds you. If anything, I'm seeing more clearly._ He smiles at this thought. He can't wait to get home and see him again, and get out on the streets with him and do what they do best.

He can't wait to be _Robin._

When he takes off in the stolen airplane, that's the only thought in his mind.

xXx

When he sees him, he starts running.

He's in one of the darkest streets in Gotham City, the buildings looming around him, and drug addicts peppering the side of the road. He should probably be nervous; he's still wearing the clothes that Talia gave him, after all, and he doesn't have any of his equipment. But when he sees Batman, those thoughts fly out the window, because he knows that at last, he's found home again. It's taken too long, but here it is, right in front of him, wearing a black cape and cowl. He breaks into a wide grin, and he opens his mouth to call out, wondering what Bruce's reaction will be.

_He won't believe it's me, at first. He'll take me back to the Cave to run a bunch of tests. Even when the DNA testing proves it's me, he won't believe it for a while. But then, he will, and he'll yell at me for being so reckless, and I'll apologize, and then Alfred'll come in with tea, and then things'll be…_

He stops running, not believing what's in front of him.

_...alright._

The figure that Batman is busy tying up isn't some random criminal, like he'd thought. Now that he is closer, he can see the green hair, the white face, the grin.

He can see the Joker.

He's just standing in the street now. If either of them look his way, they'll see him, but he doesn't care.

Because Batman is capturing the Joker.

The monster who killed him is still alive.

He sees red.

So, apparently, he's not worth enough for revenge to be taken. He's not worth enough for Batman to break his precious moral code for him. He's not worth enough.

_He's not Penguin or Scarecrow or Dent, Bruce,_ he wants to say. _He's the Joker. Barely even human. Please, take him out. Just him. Do it because... Because he took me away from you. _

_Please. I thought you cared._

He doesn't say it, though. He just stands there, in the middle of the street, both hoping that Batman will look his way and praying that he doesn't.

Things go from bad to worse.

A boy jumps down from a rooftop, dressed in yellow and green, with a shit-eating grin on his face.

He wants to puke.

"Took care of the thugs," the boy tells the bat. "You good?"

He seriously wants to puke.

"He won't be going anywhere," Batman states, gesturing toward the laughing clown. "Good work, Robin."

He's about to puke. How many times had he heard those words of praise from Batman?

Too few.

And now, there's this boy. This pretender. This... replacement. And the praise is his instead.

_You have no right to that! _he wants to scream. _No right! I'm Robin, not you!_

_How long did it take you to replace me, Bruce? _he wants to ask. _How long for you to move on from me and find someone new?_

And then, in the back of his mind: _How long did it take you to find a new son?_

Rain begins to fall, drenching his hair and clothes. He doesn't notice. As he watches, the boy smiles at Bruce, and Bruce… doesn't smile, exactly, but he comes close. Very close.

Tears mingle with the rain on his face, and slowly, so as not to draw any attention to himself, he steps backward into the darkness of a nearby alley.

And as he watches them deliver the Joker into custody, as he watches them drive away in the Batmobile, one final question echoes through his brain.

_Did you even notice I was gone?_

Jason turns and walks into the night. He doesn't look back.

He has no reason to.

**A/N: I really, really shouldn't be writing this. I have another fic in another fandom that I should be working on. But here I am anyway.**

**Feedback welcome, as this is my first foray into the fandom. Just don't flame me, and thanks for reading.**


	2. Chapter 2

It's happening all over again.

He supposes that he should have expected this, sooner or later. He was never _meant _to come back. It was a mistake. It was wrong. Talia should _never _have dropped him in the Lazarus Pit.

This is just the universe trying to correct it.

_Though, _he thinks dimly, _I don't see why it has to happen this way. It seems unnecessarily cruel. _

The metal bites into his skin as he shifts his arms. He's not sure why he does it; he knows that the handcuffs will stay secure, no matter how much he struggles. If he still had a lockpick on him, he could free himself, but his captor was meticulous in disarming him. His gloves, his boots, his belt, the brown leather jacket he's grown so fond of, they've all been taken. The helmet's gone, too, and he doesn't know whether to feel angry about that or relieved.

In the past two years, the helmet has meant many things. At first, it was an escape from who he was before, a way to become someone else. It meant that he was the Red Hood, not Robin, never Robin, never again. It meant that he could make his own decisions, escape the shadows of his past, play by his own rules and nobody else's.

Lately, though, it's been something else: a prison. He doesn't want to admit it to anyone, but he's almost scared of what he's become. He kills without mercy, and God knows his enemies deserve it, but he worries. If he were to give up his vigilante lifestyle this very instant, what would he do? What would be left of him?

There used to be lines between Jason Todd and the Red Hood. Now, those lines are blurring and disappearing, and he doesn't know how to stop it. _If _he can stop it.

If he _wants_ to stop it.

He chuckles grimly, though it comes out as a wheeze. Pondering on this doesn't do him any good at the moment. It won't get him out of this situation.

It's very likely that nothing will.

The door to the warehouse opens again, letting an icy breeze slip through, and he resists the urge to moan. The cold seeps through his bones, and the pain he'd been doing so well at ignoring returns with a vengeance. It's too much to catalogue; he only knows that his entire body hurts.

_Well, not my entire body, actually, _he amends. _I think my big toe is holding up pretty well._

"Sorry about that," his captor says. "It's so _hard _to find good help these days."

The sick thing is, the apology is probably genuine.

"I weep for your pain," he replies, forcing his words out through a mouth full of blood. "I really do."

His captor moves closer, and he can see it all. The purple suit, impeccable, but for the blood staining it. The green hair, sticking up all over the place. The horrible smile, never once wavering.

The Joker crouches down next to him, ruffling his hair. "That's good to know." He cocks his head, the smile widening. "Now, where were we again?"

He glares. He doesn't have anything else to say to this monster, though, that's partly because he's not sure that anything but blood will come out if he opens his mouth again.

"Oh, right." The clown's expression darkens, and suddenly, there is a fist breaking a few more ribs. He moans, but doesn't allow anything more than that to escape. He won't give his killer the satisfaction.

"We were talking about how you ruined the greatest joke of all time!" the Joker continues.

He's not sure how the Joker found out that he was back. He's been careful. He's stayed far, far away from Gotham, from all who might recognize him.

It was hard, at first. He wanted revenge for the wrongs he'd been done. He wanted to make everyone suffer. Even… no, _especially _Batman.

But the feelings faded with time, and rational thought took charge. If he really wanted to live his own life, he would have to leave the past in the past, no matter how hard it was to do so.

He didn't forgive, and he most certainly didn't forget. But isn't the best revenge living well?

Though, his definition of living well might be a little more twisted than everyone else's, all things considered.

And he's definitely not living well right now.

"Ah ah ah!" the Joker exclaims, shaking a finger in his face. "Pay attention! No drifting off!"

He stretches his mouth into something resembling a grin. "Wouldn't dream of it," he rasps. "I'm having the time of my life here."

The Joker purses his lips, and he knows immediately that this was the wrong thing to say. "Yes, let's have a chat about life, while we're here. Or, more specifically, how you're still in it." Another blow, this one to his arm. He hears something snap, but the pain is barely noticeable, compared to everything else. "You see, I distinctly remember killing you. It was… oh, four years ago now? Five?" Through blurred vision, he can barely see the monster flapping his hand. "Well, that's not the point. But you didn't get out of that warehouse before it blew, you couldn't have! So, tell me… how are you here?"

Blows begin to rain down again, different from the previous ones. _He… has a crowbar,_ he realizes. _Where did that come from? _He discards the thought a moment later, deeming it unimportant. The fact is that he has one.

Bones shatter. Bruises form. Blood flows onto the floor. And he can't hold back a scream.

"Oh, dear," the Joker sighs. "It seems you won't be able to answer the question. Oops. Pity. I was hoping to ask another one." He leans down to one ear. "Once and for all… A or B?"

The crowbar comes down again, and he begs for unconsciousness.

xXx

When he comes to, the Joker is still there.

He wasn't expecting anything differently, of course, but a part of him was hoping that it would be a dream. That he'd wake up in his dingy apartment a few states away.

It's not to be, though.

"Well, I suppose I need to be off," the clown drawls. "It's been fun, old times and all that. But I've got business in town." He walks towards the door, pausing to look back. "No bomb this time, I'm afraid," he says apologetically. "I simply didn't have the time. But I'm sure that doesn't matter." He grins, teeth gleaming. "After all, it's not as if anyone's coming for you."

Then, the monster is gone.

He doesn't make an attempt to stand. There would be no point; he knows he can't do it. At least one leg is broken, and by now, he's lost too much blood to make a worthwhile effort to move.

_Damn it._

He doesn't _want_ to die now. Not here. Not because of _him. _Not again.

But it doesn't seem as if he has a choice. Because the madman was right about one thing: no one is coming for him. No one knows he's alive, and even if they did, they probably wouldn't save him anyway.

Being alone has never felt so lonely.

_It's not like my death matters much, though. It's turning out to be just like my life: painful and pointless._

He laughs at this observation, proving his own point about the blood loss, because it's really, _really_ not funny. Maybe he has a concussion, too. Wouldn't that be the icing on top of the cake?

_Make that a_ _probable concussion, then._

Suddenly, inexplicably, his train of thought dislodges, and he remembers the night he made Dick, during one of the rare times he was actually being an older brother, watch Nightmare on Elm Street with him. The movie scared the crap out of him, and though Dick never admitted it, the older man was scared too.

In any case, even as the world faces around him, the rhyme floats in his head, the words twisting to fit his situation.

_One, two, Joker's coming for you._

_Three, four, bloodstains on the floor._

_Five, six, it can't be fixed._

_Seven, eight, they're all too late._

_Nine… ten…_

_Robin's dead again…_

Everything goes black.

xXx

He isn't ready to die.

The thought comes to him not like a stroke of lightning, but like a lazy stream, flowing through his mind until he acknowledges it.

He isn't ready to die. He's come too damn far.

Since his resurrection, he's hit a lot of low points. After seeing that kid in the Robin costume, it was all he could do to stop himself from eating a bullet. There were other times, too, when he looked over the side of a building and considered how easy it would be to just… fall.

But he never did.

And he realizes that it's not what he wants to do now.

With an effort, he wrenches his eyes open. It doesn't help much; everything is blurry, and out of focus, and dark. But he thinks he can make out where the door is, and that's the important part. If he can reach the door, he can open it. If he can open it, he can escape. If he can escape, if he can _get out of this warehouse_, maybe he can survive.

He begins to crawl.

The effort is short-lived, though. His body is too broken to make it very far, and the motion only sends him into a coughing fit. Blood splatters against the floor and drips down his chin, and he stares at it in frustration, then back at the door.

_I won't make it to the door,_ he realizes, _and even if I did, it's sure to be locked, just like last time._

The memories flood him, but he shakes them off, even as he begins to resign himself to his fate.

He's going to die.

He's going to die, and there's nothing he can do about it.

He's going to die, and no one's going to know.

He's going to die, and no one's going to miss him.

xXx

He's not sure how much time has passed when he hears the door burst open. He's lost track of everything, and even the pain is starting to dim.

But these voices… he recognizes these voices, and that's enough to make him start paying attention, if only for a little while longer.

"He's not in here, boss," a man says. "I don't think he has been for… Oh, God." Footsteps sound, rushing toward his prone form. Others follow close behind… two pairs? Maybe? It's hard to tell. Focusing is taking more and more energy, and he's not sure how much longer he can keep it up. "There's a hostage in here. He's…" Two fingers press to the side of his neck, and the man inhales sharply. "He's still alive."

"What condition is he in?" another voice questions, cold and clinical. He stiffens. He _knows _that voice, though at the moment, he can't remember whether he loves it or hates it.

"It's bad," the first one replies. "He might not make it to the hospital."

"That's a uniform he's wearing," a third voice interjects sharply. This one is young, and only slightly familiar. But it's enough to confirm who he's listening to.

Suddenly, hands take him by the side and flip him over, causing every nerve in his body to yell out in protest. Colors flash against his eyelids, and he screams until he can't anymore, until his vocal chords give out.

"That's what the Red Hood wears," the third one says. "Only, without the helmet and... what? What is it? Why are you..."

Even as the voice trails off, he knows the game is up. He's still wearing a mask, cracked and bloody as it is, but that won't matter. They've seen his face with one on often enough. Despite the years that have gone by, they'll recognize him.

"Jason…?" the first voice whispers, and he decides that it's high time to enter the conversation. With no small amount of force, his eyelids open, and he finds himself staring into the masked face of Dick Grayson.

He wants to say something along the lines of, "Fuck off, Dick," but he can't form the words. Blood fills his mouth again, and he chokes on the coppery liquid. It's suddenly hard to breathe.

"Don't try to talk," Dick orders, eyes annoyingly full of worry, and… are those tears? "It's… it's going to be alright, Jay, I promise."

_Yeah, right, _he wants to snort. _Where was that worry when I was actually around, huh? You weren't even at my goddamn funeral._

But he can't. Because everything is going black again, and the words won't form. His eyes slip shut, the effort to keep them open too great.

"No no no no no! Stay awake, Jaybird! Stay awake!"

The voice is frantic, pleading, but he doesn't care anymore. Everything is warm in the blackness he's sinking into, very warm, and it promises him peace at last.

Before he gives in fully, he thinks he hears another voice, too, calling his name, but that doesn't matter either. He has no real reason to stay anymore, does he? Here, where everything hurts and no one cares.

It would be alright to fall asleep.

So Jason does.

**A/N: So, what was once an angsty one-shot is now an angsty two-shot. Whether it becomes an angsty three-shot is now up to you. Review and tell me: should I add one more chapter, or not?**

**And if the answer is yes, I should add another chapter, there are two options: 1- Jason dies and everyone (especially Bruce) goes on a guilt trip, or 2- Jason doesn't die, but causes a guilt trip anyway. Because he is not particularly happy with any of them (especially Bruce).**

**To reiterate: call one number he lives, call another he dies. But don't cheat and call the die number hundreds of times. That's not cool.**

**Either way, please review and tell me what you think!**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Well, option 2 won by a good 11-0, so here we have Jason alive… barely. Also, to avoid confusion, I'm going to point out right now that this is **_**not **_**his point of view, unlike the first two chapters. This one's going to be switching back and forth between several POVs. **

"Six broken ribs. A broken collarbone. A dislocated shoulder. His left humerus is broken in two places, and both wrists are sprained."

With every injury Leslie ticks off, Bruce's heart sinks.

"His right femur is broken, along with his left tibia. Then there's the significant internal bleeding, and…" She breaks off, shaking her head. "Bruce, I can't guarantee he'll wake up at all."

He passes a hand over his face. "Just… just do what you can for him," he says, though the crack in his voice makes it sound more like a plea. He supposes that it is.

"Of course I will," she replies, her voice sharp, "but you still haven't explained to me how he's alive in the first place."

His gaze falls on the boy in the bed, hooked up to an IV, beeping medical equipment surrounding him. He is still, too still, and Bruce remembers the day the coffin lowered into the ground. The day he buried his own son.

_What's happened to you, Jason? Why didn't you come home?_

He shakes his head, unable to meet Leslie's eyes. "I don't know," he whispers. "I don't know."

She squeezes his shoulder as she leaves the room, but it barely registers in his mind. Too many doubts and fears have taken up residence there, and with them questions, questions to which he doesn't know the answers.

Footsteps come up behind him, but he doesn't have to turn to know who it is. The gait is unmistakable. "Hey," Dick says, his voice hollow. "How's he doing?"

"It's bad," he replies, voice emotionless, running on autopilot. "He might not wake up."

"He will," Dick insists. "He has to. It's…" He breaks off, running a hand across his face. He seems to have aged five years in the past two hours, and Bruce feels about the same way. "God, Bruce," he says at length, "how could this happen? How could he… I just don't understand." He looks from Bruce to the bed, then back to Bruce again. His eyes shine with too many emotions to identify. "How is he alive?" he whispers. "Why didn't he come tell us?"

"I don't know," Bruce says again. He looks his son in the eyes. "I don't know, Dick, but I intend to find out." With that, he strides from the room. He has a mission now, something that he can focus on, needs to focus on.

He doesn't think about what will happen if he can't find the answers.

xXx

It's with great reluctance that he asks Superman to meet him at the graveyard. If he had the time, he wouldn't get anyone else involved at all, but the sooner he finds these answers, the better. And he know that Clark will keep the situation quiet if he asks.

Quieter than it would be if he had the coffin exhumed, at any rate.

"Not exactly a great place to meet," the Kryptonian remarks. His tone is mild, but his brow is furrowed in concern, and Bruce can tell that he knows something is up. "So, what do you need? I assume you didn't call me here for coffee."

Without replying, Bruce turns and leads him further into the graveyard, not stopping for the other man's questions. He comes to a halt only when they are beside the gravestone. It looks exactly the same as the last time he was here, but it's not what's above ground that concerns him. Meeting Clark's gaze, he gestures toward the soil. "I need you to tell me what you see," he says.

Clark frowns at him, likely beginning to become worried for his mental health, but he humors him. He doesn't say anything at first, and for a moment, a terrible, lengthy moment, Bruce fears that he might be wrong. But then: "Good Lord!" His gaze snaps up, blue eyes wide. "What's going on, Bruce?" he demands.

Bruce shakes his head. "What's down there?" he asks again.

Clark exhales, glancing down at the ground again. "There's no body in the coffin," he states, voice low, "and the lid's collapsed. There's nothing down there but dirt, and…" He hesitates, probably gauging his reaction. "Bruce, there's dried blood on the wood, and I think a few broken fingernails. It looks like the coffin was forced open from the inside."

Bruce closes his eyes, his theory confirmed.

_Jason came back to life in his coffin. He crawled his way out of his own grave._

"Bruce…" Clark trails off, and he looks at him.

"I'll tell you after I find out myself," he replies to the unspoken question.

He leaves the graveyard not long after, though not before casting a look at the angel statue standing watch over Jason's grave, the statue he placed there in the vague hope that it would do what he couldn't, that it would take care of his son in death as he had so completely failed in doing in life.

_What did you see? _he questions. _And how long ago? What happened to my son?_

The statue doesn't answer.

xXx

"So, uh," Dick starts, collapsing into the chair by his younger brother's bedside, "Bruce has gone out. I think he's trying to figure out what happened to you." He sighs, shaking his head ruefully. "Any other time, I'd kick his ass for not being in here with you, but… well, you know Bruce. He doesn't deal with things like we do. He needs to be out there doing something, or he'll go crazy." He regards Jason's still face, and wishes that it weren't so pale under the bandages and blood. "I can't blame him. I want to know as badly as he does." He reaches out and takes his brother's hand. It is cold and clammy, but he can feel a faint pulse threading through the wrist, and right now, he needs the reassurance.

He needs to know that his little brother is still here.

His little brother is here. It's an odd thought, after so long. He remembers his reaction to hearing the news that Robin was dead. He'd punched Bruce right in the face, and it had felt extremely satisfying.

"He was a kid, Bruce!" he'd shouted. "A kid! Fifteen years old! How could you let it happen?"

Bruce hadn't replied, had only turned away. The devastation that momentarily flickered across his face had almost been enough to make Dick apologize.

Almost.

Now, though, staring at Jason's still form, he doesn't know what to think.

He's always been the first to admit that he wasn't a very good brother to Jason when he was alive. He and Bruce had been in the middle of a pissing contest, and he'd had the Titans, too, so he hadn't exactly been particularly interested in getting to know the kid that had taken his costume.

But then there had been those times when they _were _like family. Like at that baseball game they'd gone to together. Or that time Jason had convinced him to watch _Nightmare on Elm Street_ with him.

And then, after his death… his greatest regret had been that he hadn't been enough of a brother to him. A little voice in the back of his head had nagged at him for months: if he'd been there for Jason, would he have felt the need to find his mother at all, to seek out a way to fill the gap that, looking back, was so obviously there?

Would he still be alive?

Eventually, he'd silenced the thought. Even if it was true, there was nothing he could do about it anymore. He'd had his chance and lost it.

But now…

His grip on Jason's hand tightens. His form looks so small and frail under the covers, though he knows that that's not the case, that Jason's spent God-knows how long running around as a vigilante (and that's something he doesn't really want to consider the ramifications of. Not now, anyway.). "God, Jay," he whispers, throat tight and voice cracking. "We should have been there for you. This should never have happened." He doesn't quite know what he's referring to: the present situation, Ethiopia, or something else entirely, but that doesn't make his statement any less true. "I… God, Jaybird, please wake up."

Jason doesn't twitch, and Dick lets the tears fall.

xXx

Bruce supposes that he should have anticipated this. If he'd been less emotional, he would have, but try as he might, he can't look at this objectively. It's his son that he's trying to track, his son that's lying in the Cave in a coma. His son.

So, really, he should have known that Ra's al Ghul would be involved in it all, somehow.

What he doesn't expect is being intercepted by Talia en route.

"Beloved," she greets, every inch the heiress she is. "I received word that you are seeking my father."

He stays silent, watching her warily, waiting for her next words. Talia wouldn't come talk to him without a very good reason for it, and he has a feeling that he knows what that reason is.

"You knew."

She lifts her chin slightly. "Yes," she answers. There is no doubt in her voice, erasing any thoughts he might have that she doesn't know exactly what he's talking about. Bruce grits his teeth, but her next words give him pause. "My father does not. At least, not to my knowledge."

"_What?_" he growls, mind racing. Everything thus far has led him to Ra's and a Lazarus Pit, but if Ra's doesn't _know_, as Talia claims… "_You _brought him back," he realizes. "Why-" He doesn't realize he's lessened the distance between them to about six inches until she steps back, arms folded. She doesn't look angry, though, or even irritated.

"Allow me to explain, please," she says quietly. "There is much you do not know." She meets his gaze evenly, but there is an indefinable emotion in her eyes. Bruce doesn't like it. Nevertheless, he motions for her to go ahead. If she's sharing this information freely, he'll listen. "What led you here?" she asks. "What pointed you toward my father?"

"It was the only logical conclusion," he replies. "Jason came back from the grave," -and damn it, he won't let his voice falter- "and he is the only one who has access to something that might have caused it."

Talia inclines her head in agreement. "The Lazarus Pits," she confirms, and his heart sinks. "Yes."

Anger rises up in him, and he doesn't try to quell it. Nevermind the fact that he's supposed to be _Batman _right now, Batman, who doesn't allow emotions to cloud his thoughts; this is his son who was put through hell. "Was it worth it?" he demands. "Subjecting a child to that torture? Did you get what you wanted?"

"The life Jason was living before I found him was no life at all," Talia replies, her voice taking on a sharp edge. "My people found him wandering the streets of Gotham brain dead. Muscle memory was the only thing keeping him alive."

He doesn't react outwardly, but his heart begins to shatter. "When?" he asks, not trusting himself to say anything else.

"It was more than two years after his death." She eyes him, her expression hard. "He'd been on the streets for some time by then."

He doesn't respond. He can't. _He was still in Gotham. He was in Gotham for years, and I didn't find him._

"I'd hoped that I could revive him by a more natural way, but nothing worked. I knew that time was running out, if I wanted my father to remain unaware of my activities, so yes." She sighs. "Yes, I put Jason in the Lazarus Pit." She blinks slowly, and her face softens. "And it worked."

xXx

Tim enters the room cautiously, as if making a sound would disturb its inhabitant. It's ridiculous, he knows, but he can't help it.

"Hello," he mutters, looking anywhere but at the still, too-pale face. "My name's Tim. I'm… uh, I suppose I'm your little brother." He stops there, realizing that he's not quite sure what to say. He can't really say something personal; the only way he knew Jason Todd was through his pictures and the news reports, and the file on the computer that Bruce doesn't know he's looked at..

Besides, it's not as if he'll hear him.

He continues anyway.

"I was confused when you first became Robin," he begins. "I'd been used to watching Dick for so long that when you first appeared, with all your street-cockiness and your heavy punches instead of acrobatics, I didn't know what to make of you." He frowns and stares at his hands, contemplating his next words. "But then I figured it out. You were just as much Robin as Dick was, and… it's because of you that I have the chance to be Robin now." He hesitates again, finally working up the courage to look at his face. It's thin, and slightly scarred, and there's a hardness to it even in a coma. Tim doesn't want to imagine what he's been through since his death.

His death…. that was where it all began, wasn't it? His death had sent Batman spiraling down a dark road, and that's why he'd become Robin in the first place. To save him from that darkness.

He hasn't succeeded completely. Sure, Batman isn't beating criminals to the point of death anymore, but the fact remains that the second Robin's death left a void that Tim couldn't quite fill.

Not that he would want to.

"I hope you're alright with it," he says. "My being Robin, I mean. I wasn't trying to replace you, I swear." He swallows heavily. "Sometimes I talk to your costume, you know. The one that's hanging in the Batcave. If I can't figure out what to do, sometimes I ask you what you think." He laughs. "It's stupid, I know, and Bruce would have my head if he knew. I think he's scared that if I act too much like you, I'll… well, the same thing will happen to me." He tilts his head, considering the still form. "They say that if you talk to someone in a coma, they'll hear you, but I sort of hope that's not true. If it turns out that you've actually heard all of this, I'm probably going to die of embarrassment." He stands. "Please wake up, though," he murmurs. "I'd really like to meet you."

With that, he leaves the room. He feels uncomfortable there, as if he doesn't have a right to talk to this man at all.

Perhaps it's true. Only time will tell.

xXx

"What do you mean it worked?" Bruce asks. The question comes out as more of a whisper than anything, but he can't find it within him to care. He's given up trying to maintain a mask of dignity at this point.

He just wants to know what happened to his son.

Talia sighs. "I mean exactly that," she states. "I worried that he would return wrong, or mad, or only partially-functional, but beyond my expectations, he seemed unscathed. It took me a good while to figure out exactly why, but I believe I know the reason." She eyes him. "His only thoughts upon returning were how to get back to you. His mind was fixed upon it, and that, I believe, is what kept the madness at bay."

"But he didn't," he corrects. "He didn't come back to me."

She sighs again. "As far as I can tell, he did. He escaped from my home soon after I revived him, and I let him go. I tracked the airplane that he stole, and he landed it just outside of Gotham City."

None of this is making any sense. If Jason came back to Gotham, then why didn't he know about it?

"Why he didn't go to you, I can't say. After this, I only kept rudimentary tabs on him. He has trained with many masters, many of them criminals, and many of them killed by his own hand once he was finished with them."

Jason is a killer. His son is a killer.

Mentally, he knew this. Jason is the Red Hood, and he's been keeping his eye on the Red Hood. A vigilante that serves his own brand of justice. The only reason why he'd never confronted him was because he seemed to always stay far away from Gotham, so he'd never been a top priority.

Now, though, he is being assaulted by the facts, and he can't ignore them.

Jason has killed. He's turned his back on everything he'd taught him, and taken a far darker road.

His son is not the same boy he knew.

No, he shouldn't think like that.

But he does. He can't stop himself.

Talia narrows her eyes, as if reading his thoughts. "Before you are so eager to pass judgement," she says quietly, "perhaps you should question why he felt as if he could not go back to you. He made it to Gotham with full intent of seeing you again, so what changed?"

He wishes he knew.

xXx

Alfred stands by Jason's bedside, staring down at his former charge. He has changed quite a bit in the past few years. Any hint of childhood that had been present at fifteen is now gone, replaced with sharp features, and even more saddening, no hint of smile lines.

"What have you been doing to yourself, Master Jason?" Alfred questions, his tone scolding, though he expects no response. Not yet, anyway. He fully expects the young man to wake up, and likely sooner rather than later. He is tough, that much hasn't changed about him, and he won't let a minor setback such as this get in his way.

Alfred shakes his head and chuckles to himself. "_You _would describe this as minor, anyway," he states. "You'll likely be attempting to get on your feet before too long, despite the fact that you'll need months to heal." His mood sobers at that, as he knows it's true. Jason won't actually be back on his feet for a long time yet.

The butler sighs. "You really ought to take better care of yourself Master Jason," he instructs. "As much as I am delighted to see you home, the manner of your return leaves much to be desired." He sighs again, reaching out and smoothing down his messy hair. "Wake up soon, Master Jason," he says. "The manor hasn't been the same without you."

And he will wake up, of this Alfred is sure. He considers himself a father and a grandfather to those who live in the manor, and he's already lost Jason once.

He won't lose him again.

xXx

Bruce passes Alfred as he enters the room. He doesn't ask how he is; he can tell from his face that he's exactly the same.

And he is. Still and pale. If it weren't for the beeping heart monitors, Bruce would think he was dead.

He shakes the thought from his mind. Right now, imagining his son dead again is more than he can bear.

He collapses into the chair by his bed and runs a hand through his hair. "Damn it, Jason," he mutters, staring at him. He mentally lists every injury Leslie had discovered, and resists the urge to go and beat the Joker to a pulp. As much as he would like to do so, he is needed more here. He'll be damned if he's not by Jason's side when he wakes up.

"You're going to wake up," he states. "You're stronger than this, Jason. You aren't going to let the Joker keep you down." He laughs humorlessly. "Death didn't stop you, so why should this?" He reaches out and takes Jason's hand, his mind growing calm for the first time since this ordeal began. "Right now, I don't care what you've been doing. I don't care about your methods, or how much blood is on your hands," he says firmly, realizing as he does so that it's very true. "That can wait. Right now, I just want you to wake up. I want you to be safe." He looks at the hand he's clasping. It's so much bigger than he remembers. "Jason…" He trails off, his voice cracking slightly. "I'm just glad you're alive."

"Well, I'm glad someone is."

Bruce blinks, wondering if he heard that right. Slowly, he raises his eyes to Jason's face and blinks again.

Tired teal eyes blink back.

**A/N: Well, here it is. Chapter three. Terribly sorry about the wait. I warned the readers of my other fic… but I forgot to do so here. April and May aren't good writing months for me, due to the sheer amount of tests we have to take in school. But that's all over now, so hopefully I'll be able to put out the last chapter relatively quickly. Thank you for your patience though. :)**

**Yes, there will be one more chapter. And possibly an epilogue, but I'm not sure about that yet.**


	4. Chapter 4

Waking up is a surprise to him. It doesn't come slowly, like most over-romanticized books say it does, but in a flash that almost has him gasping for air. It's all he can do to keep still and assess his current situation, to see exactly what kind of shit he's gotten himself into now.

Well, he certainly doesn't hurt as much as he did, which is a plus. His wounds have been treated, and by an expert too, by the feel of things. There's an IV in him; he can feel the drugs, which are probably why he feels like he's been hit by a car instead of an 18-wheeler.

The next thing he realizes is that there's someone holding his hand.

Oh, shit. Out of the frying pan and into the fire.

Whoever it is is speaking, too. The voice is familiar, too familiar for comfort, and while he has to focus to catch the tail-end of what he's saying, it's enough to make his eyes snap wide open.

"I'm just glad you're alive."

Well. That's kind of rich, coming from him. Because it is him, exactly as he expected it to be. Bruce Wayne, the man of many titles, the walking contradiction. The billionaire playboy, the brilliant detective. The ruthless vigilante, the guiding mentor. The man who he once called 'Dad', the man who didn't care enough to avenge his death, the man who replaced him.

Bitterness rises to the surface quickly.

"Well, I'm glad someone is," he quips. His voice is raspy, though he didn't expect anything different. God knows he's strained it enough in the past… what? He realizes that he has no idea how long he's been unconscious, and this unsettles him. One of the things he prides himself on is keeping self-awareness; it's one of the only things he knows he'll always have control over, and with the life he leads, it's quite possibly the most important. With that gone, he feels that much more uncomfortable with the situation.

Not that it wasn't uncomfortable already.

Bruce is staring at him now. His eyes blink, as if he can't believe what he's seeing. Jason blinks back. "So…" he drawls, shifting on the bed, ignoring the pain that movement causes him, "are you going to start this conversation, or should I?"

Bruce's mouth opens and closes several times; it would be comical if not for the situation. "Jason…" he begins, but trails off. He's lost for words, which Jason finds very amusing. The goddamn Batman, speechless. Maybe he should have come out of the woodwork sooner.

"How are you feeling?"

It's asked so quietly that he almost misses it. He sends the man a look which clearly conveys how asinine the question is. "I'm feeling peachy, thank you very much. It was so much fun being beaten with a crowbar. Again." He narrows his eyes. "I'm still alive, which makes it better than last time, I guess." He smirks, though something in the action feels wrong, broken, and he can tell that the other man can see it. "So, how 'bout you? How's your day been? Catch any clowns?"

Bruce visibly flinches. "Jason, I…"

"Didn't think so."

"Jason." His voice is sharper now. He's using that tone, the Jason-be-quiet-and-listen-for-once tone that used to be so present in his life, once upon a time. But some of his reaction to it must show on his face, because Bruce's features soften somewhat. "I'm glad you're home."

It's not entirely true, Jason can tell. There are questions in Bruce's eyes, and while he's making a decent effort not to ask them, it won't last long. Jason snorts. "Hate to break it to you, but this hasn't been my home for years."

The hurt expression on Bruce's face brings both satisfaction and guilt, but far more of the former than the latter. "I'm sorry," the man whispers, and Jason frowns. Not what he'd been expecting, but he can't allow himself to be thrown off guard.

"For what?" he asks, warily.

"Your…" He drags a hand across his face. "It was my fault, I should have-"

"Wait, wait, back up, are you talking about my _death? _Bruce, I have never bla-" He cuts himself off, shaking his head. _That's _what he's worked up about? Seriously? Right now, that's the furthest thing from his mind. His death wasn't Batman's fault, he's had enough time to work through that much. He was reckless, he knew that his mother was involved in something, and he should have waited for Batman to get there before jumping in. He had no one to blame but himself for his actions.

Did he ever blame Batman for not saving him? Not really, though he can't deny that there is a small amount of lingering, irrational hurt over the matter. No, he places the fault on the Joker, and it's all the issues _that _causes that once made him want to put a bomb under the Batmobile and pull the trigger.

"Bruce," he starts, surprised at how steady his voice is, "I _forgive _you for not saving me. I've never blamed you for _that._ God, this is what you're worked up about?" He sighs, knowing that he's in for a long and unpleasant conversation. "That's not the problem."

"Then what is?" the man asks, and damn it all, he actually sounds like he doesn't know.

Jason snorts. "Why don't you take a guess? It's not that hard." He pauses to see if Bruce intends to answer, but he just stares at him with hard blue eyes, and he sighs again. _Alright then… _"Why didn't you avenge me, Bruce?" he demands. "Why is that piece of trash still alive?"

He hadn't thought that Bruce's face could get any stonier, but apparently he'd been wrong. "I don't kill, Jason," he states. "You know that."

"Oh, I know. I know that better than most." He laughs grimly and ignores the pain that sends shooting through his ribs. "I just thought that maybe I was worth more to you than your antiquated moral code." Bruce opens his mouth, but Jason overrides him. He's not finished, damn it, and he's not going to let Bruce interrupt him with excuses. "But I guess not. I'd like to know, how many people has he killed since I died? How many families has he ripped apart? How many lives has he destroyed?" His voice crescendos. "How many deaths could have been prevented?"

There is silence for a moment, and at first Jason thinks he won't answer. But then, he does, and he decides he would have preferred the quiet. "If I had killed him, if I crossed that line, I wouldn't come back from it," Bruce replied. "Staying on the right side of the law is what differentiates me from them, and if-"

"That's bullshit, and you know it. I know exactly where this conversation goes, Bruce, because I've imagined it hundreds of times. Why do you think I've stayed so far away from Gotham? By your logic, I'm exactly the type of murderous criminal that you should lock up in Arkham." He chuckles at the face he makes. "Oh, come on, don't pretend you don't know. I'm the Red Hood, after all, and I know you've been keeping track of me, at least, even if I have stayed out of Gotham. Am I right? So, really, in your mind, I'm no better than someone like, say, Black Mask."

"That's not-"

"But the thing is, what you refuse to acknowledge is that by doing what I do the way I do it, I actually make a difference. Take a look at any of the cities I've been in, and you'll see I cut the crime rates by half. You know why?" He leans slightly closer, smiling. "Two reasons. One: you get rid of the scum of the street permanently, and they can't break out of prison and kill more people later. And two: they're scared of me in a way no one will ever be scared of you, because they know that you won't kill them. You won't do _anything _to them that they won't heal from, and in as short a time as a few weeks, they'll be doing what they were doing as if nothing ever happened to them." He pauses to see if his words are making any impact at all. They don't seem to be, but he finishes anyway. "What you do _doesn't work._"

"Jason, your methods aren't-"

"My methods? My methods what?" His voice rises again, hysterically, but he doesn't care. "Aren't good? Aren't heroic? You know what? I don't give a damn if my methods aren't heroic enough for you! I haven't been a hero since the Joker blew me up and I crawled out of my grave!"

Silence follows this proclamation, stifling, deafening silence. Jason realizes that he is panting for breath, and struggles to calm himself, to have control over his emotions. This is his unspoken third reason for avoiding Gotham: if he allows his anger to get the better of him here, he can't guarantee that he _won't _start sending thing up in flames.

"And then," he states, his anger still evident through the way he clips his words. Oh, well. It's better than shouting again. "And then I come back to Gotham, once my brain's working again, because I want to find you, and I want everything to go back to the way it was." He snorts, shaking his head at his own folly. "Yeah, right. What I find instead is you tying up the Joker and another kid in the Robin costume, like nothing had changed at all."

"Jason, it wasn't like that."

"Oh, really? 'Cos I did some digging after that, and you know what I found out?" He stares at the man, allowing the bitterness to show, because why shouldn't he? He's here now, so he might as well _attempt _to get Bruce to understand, even if he knows he won't. "I'm the Robin that no one likes to talk about, because I'm the one that failed. Everyone remembers Dick for being the Golden Boy, everyone knows Tim for being a fantastic Robin now, but you know what I am? I'm the dirty little secret, kept out of sight and out of mind. No one remembers all the good things _I _did, they just remember that I was cocky and impulsive, and that I died. That's it. That's all my legacy is. A cautionary tale, and a plaque that says I was a good soldier." He's let himself get louder again, and he's no longer sure how much sense he's making, if he's making sense at all, but if anyone asks him to explain himself later, at least he can blame this whole conversation on the drugs.

And suddenly, the anger fades, leaving him drained and tired, and he realizes that he's sick of it. Sick of fighting, sick of yelling, and sick of not knowing exactly how Bruce feels. He takes his gaze away from his once-father's face and stares at anything else: the wall, the bed sheets, his hands that somehow didn't suffer much damage above the wrists, despite how many times he threw them up to ward off the blows. "Bruce…" He starts, then hesitates. He's not sure he wants to know the answer to his question, not sure he can keep his voice from trembling when he asks it.

"Did you ever care?"

He asks it anyway.

xXx

**A/N: Okay, so, actually, I've decided to separate this chapter into two, so excuse its shorter length. The ending just seemed natural, and also, I'm going out of town for a couple of weeks, so I wanted to get something out before that, since I don't think I'll have internet access.**

**(Also, wanted to clarify something for last chapter. The reason things went so AU was because Talia kept her pet project (Jason) completely away from her father. Very hush hush, total secret, and he definitely wasn't there when Talia pushed Jason into the Pit. I think I implied that well enough, but in case I didn't, that's why Talia said that her father doesn't know about Jason. (Though, he probably does anyway, I mean, it's Ra's al Ghul we're talking about...) But anyway...) **

**So, Jason's vented, and next chapter, we'll have Bruce's reaction. In the mean time, drop a line and tell me what you think! Reviews inspire me like nothing else does, even if it's just one word. :)**


	5. Chapter 5

"_Did you ever care?"_

The words echo in Bruce's mind, and his breath catches. The logical side of him berates him; he should have seen this question coming, from the way the conversation had been going. Snippets of it still circle in his brain, the words acknowledged but perhaps not entirely understood.

"_This hasn't been my home for years."_

"_I _forgive _you for not saving me."_

"_I'm exactly the type of murderous criminal that you should lock up in Arkham."_

And perhaps the most heartbreaking…

"_I'm the dirty little secret, kept out of sight and out of mind. No one remembers all the good things I did."_

Can he be blamed for barely comprehending what's happening right now? He doesn't think so. After all, only hours ago, he still thought that his son was dead, and things have been occurring much too quickly since then.

Bruce stares at the young man in front of him, for that is what Jason is now. A young man, not the boy he once knew. Not the young boy he trained, not the young boy who flew by his side without a care in the world. Not the young teenager either, the one who was impulsive, violent, argumentative, but who he still cared about with all his heart.

No, Jason is not either of those. Not anymore. Instead, this stranger lies in the bed, this stranger with too many lines on his face and scars on his back, and eyes that are so, so very hurt.

He doesn't seem to be quite as angry anymore; if he is, he's hiding it well. Instead, he appears drained, weary, and he's staring at him with an aura of inevitability around him, as if he's expecting a certain answer and is just waiting for that hammer to drop, to shatter any hope that he may have managed to keep hold of these past few years.

It's this that gives Bruce pause, that makes him think about what to say next. If he chooses the wrong thing, if he makes a single misstep, Jason won't give him another chance.

_Of course, it might not matter either way, _he realizes. _There might not be a relationship to fix here, and I wouldn't blame him if there isn't. God, how badly have I failed that he would even _think _to ask a question like that?_

Unfortunately, he can guess the answer for himself. It's there, written in the words of his son's speech, and heard in the desperate, painful tone in his voice.

But how is he to amend this? How can he possibly correct this error? How can he make his son see how wrong both of them have been all these years? Because he has to believe there's a way. He has to.

He has to believe that there's a way to make this right.

_But how?_

He can't talk about Jason's chosen alias and activities, not now, no matter how much that needs to be addressed, and no matter how much he himself needs to come to terms with the fact that his son is now a killer. Jason has made his thoughts on the subject very clear, and to push him on the subject right now would be to push him away.

He can't berate him for his outlook on things, either, no matter how much he wants to. He wants to shout at him, to take him by the shoulders and shake him, to say, _Why would you think you don't have a home here anymore? Why don't you realize how loved you are, Jason? Why? Why can't you see that?_ He won't, though, because it would put him on the defensive again, and a defensive Jason won't be willing to listen.

He can't explain himself, either, not yet, anyway. Jason has proven that he won't be receptive to what he will interpret as excuses, no matter what the words actually are.

_Tim never _replaced _you, Jason. He is his own person, his own Robin, and one that I definitely didn't go looking for. No matter how much I care for him, he's never filled the hole that your death left in me._

_The Joker's death wouldn't have accomplished anything, Jason, and it wouldn't have brought you back to me. If it would have, not even Superman would have been able to stop me._

_Your legacy isn't your death, Jason, and it's certainly not all that everyone remembers about you. You're not the one who failed, I am._

This is what he wants to say, this and far, far more, but he can't. How can he tell him this when he knows that he won't be heard?

No. This has to wait.

_For how long, though? _he asks himself. _How long will it take to rebuild any amount of trust between us?_

He knows the answer, no matter how much he doesn't like it. This will take time, and effort, and probably a lot of shouting and arguing from both of them, and it certainly won't be easy.

But they have to start somewhere, and Bruce instinctively knows that he needs to be the one to take the first step.

How long has it been since Jason asked the question? Seconds? Minutes? Not too long, he knows, because Jason is still staring at him with that same, horribly defeated expression on his face. Bruce sighs and takes his hand in both of his, wondering when he'd let it go in the first place.

"Jason," he begins.

Jason stiffens.

"There is nothing on this earth or off of it that would make me stop loving you."

Bruce takes a moment to gauge his reaction- shock, suspicion, and surprisingly, not much anger- before pulling him into an embrace.

And Jason doesn't hug back, but he doesn't push away, either, and Bruce smiles.

Maybe there's something here to fix after all.

**A/N: Well… that was… short. My excuse is that it technically takes place in the span of a few seconds. Apologies if it's a bit disjointed, but frankly I think Bruce's thoughts have a right to be a little disjointed at this point (even if he **_**is**_ **still waaaay too logical for this kind of situation. Oh well.).**

**Thank you so much for all the alerts and reviews! It makes my day every time I get one. Just the epilogue to go now! :)**

**Edit 2/11/16: Alright, I know I promised an epilogue. But the thing is, it's been a long time since I had any drive for this fic, and honestly? I think that this chapter ended on a nice, hopeful note, and I have the feeling that if I were to try to add anything onto that, it would ruin the effect. So, as far as epilogues go, I don't think it's happening. I'm really sorry. But I hope you enjoyed what there was, and thank you very much for the support while I was writing this. It means a lot to me. :)**


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